Shattered Glass
by NuitNuit
Summary: A series of stories about Zevran's life before he came to Ferelden. SLASH Zevran/Taliesin
1. The Rack

Overheated limbs stretched to the brink of snapping found relief in the cooling bath of sweat beading upon Zevran's skin. Every nerve of his body protested, seeking an end to their torment. But Zevran knew none would come. It was a test, this rack, his confinement. Pleasure peaked the corners of his tormentors' mouths as they took another turn, twisting the knobs of Zevran's own tribulation another notch.

A wince shot sharp across his mouth, involuntary. He would not succumb. He had felt worse. His nostrils filled with the acrid breath of those men, those many men that preyed upon the flesh of his innocence lost. The son of a whore, the whore of a son, his titles were many – each worn proudly in testament to his survival.

A boy of five stood before him. A coin flipped playful between deft fingers. Magic! Back and forth it whipped agile between the digits, a trickster's game. A boy of five stood before him cowering before the man with meaty fingers and all too moist lips. A boy of five stood before him, tears coating once rosy cheeks.

"This one, he's so pretty…he'll cave for sure." They taunted him and teased with their commentary. The things he would do to them if the tables were turned. Give him the control and watch the world twist and change. He would endure for his time would come. It was just another trial along his jagged and fractured path. The end was in sight.

A Crow he would become. Men, women, they all would fall at his hands. His will would be done, theirs undone. He had only to withstand the cracking and snapping, the searing of muscle from bone, the tearing of ligament. Never would those men control him again. He would play their games. He would smile their smiles. The masks would be worn. The facades paraded. Shattered glass would be reformed in mosaic.

Another click, an additional twist, the pain radiated sharp and unrelenting. They would break him if they could and kill him his necessary. His life was worth next to nothing – three sovereigns he had once been sold for, nothing more, nothing less. It was on his birthday that he found freedom and new servitude simultaneous. But it did not matter to these men, these cruel taskmasters. They took immense satisfaction in their task -- the prettier the recruit, the sweeter the reward. He had been warned.

His back arched, his spirit unyielding. Every ounce of his being poured rebellious in the twist of lips in smile. "Are we done yet," he teased. They could have his pain. They could have the breaking of his body. They would not have him, though. He held possessive onto the remaining slivers of his being, unwilling to part with those small bits he still claimed as his own.

Fingernails raked across slick drawn skin, his body extended impossibly. That hand, those fingers, he would flay them one day. Another promise catalogued in his mind, adding to the many debts he would one day collect upon.

"He has withstood enough." He knew the voice – Master Pangrazio. It prickled at his ears hinting of sweet release. Brought to the threshold, teetering trepidatious he waited. It could be another ploy, an attempt to fill him with hope only to further turn employ the rack for further torture. But another click, another turn, it did not come. He felt his bonds grow slack. He felt the pressure release its hold upon him. He was indeed done. He had indeed survived…yet again.

A gypsy had once told him he would live to be an old man. He looked upon her with disbelief and a mocking scowl. _A crazy woman, _he had thought. But as they took his bruised body from atop the rack and carried him to the awaiting litter he began to wonder the merits of the wrinkled woman's prophecies. Had there been truth in her words? Has she seen something in him the many mirrors of his past and present had failed to reveal?

Everything became blurred. His body's chemistry played its games, twisting the images of his mind, the sensations of his body into a mish mash of images and feelings. The real and the imagined became morphed into one, a collage of pandemonium.

The cruel touch he could withstand, the slap of the sadist he was prepared for, the gentle caress of the caring rattled him to the core. Eyes fluttered open at half lid, only a sliver of light allowed to permeate his vision. _Taliesin_. Friend, brother, fellow recruit, the pair had met as boys and become fast friends. Their backgrounds were freakishly familiar. Both were brought to the Crows under auspicious circumstances.

Gentle fingers stroked careful Zevran's wounds, tracing the burgeoning bruises. "You have lived to fight another day." The words tasted like the finest of wines upon Zevran's tongue. He could swim forever in the sweetness of that voice.

Energy reserves were drawn from, mouth tugged into meager smile, "You have but yet to see me truly live, my friend." And live he would.


	2. The Game

Water splashed tepid against Zevran's face. He peered in the mirror and his reflection. The taint of his latest mission stuck stubbornly to his skin. Blood, sweat and other fluids clung sticky and rancid bringing back memories of his youth – thoughts he kept tucked deep away in his mind beneath a carefree smile and a roguish swagger.

In his reflection he saw a boy of five, the ritual just conceived – all together too hot water, soap and hard bristle brush necessary to the practice. He would purify himself in the heat and the fat of the soap. It was always the same. He would clean away the evidence and present himself fresh and new until the cycle would repeat.

In his reflection he saw a man of eighteen, an Antivan Crow. The title was fancier and came with better clothing but still his will was often not his own. He was a tool to be used at the whims of his masters. Jobs were assigned; no choice in the matter provided. Money changed hands but never with his. And as always, the mess and slop of the deed landed squarely on him. He rolled in the filth and completed these tasks. The lure of his voice, the swipe of his blade, whatever methods required he used to do what must be done.

These marks were almost always fat, smelly and greasy – over-fed cows ripe for the slaughter. The looks on their faces as he drew them into private and secluded places were all too familiar. Hungered and slimy they appeared all too ready to consume him should he allow it. Those days of surrender were over, however. A boy of five he stood no longer. The faces of these men were varied. But they all represented the same thing to Zevran – debts from the past he planned to claim. In their blood, he found reparations. In their blood, he found pleasure.

He would leave their bodies to be found later. They were often men that others wished to make examples of. The jobs entailed no degree of finesse or subtly. _Grab and stab_ he had jokingly called them. And they always left him feeling as if he needed a bath.

Unfortunately, the small flat he shared with Taliesin lacked that particular luxury. It was a modest abode at best and ratty at its worst. The only real benefit it offered was it allowed them both to leave the Crow barracks -- stink filled cesspools rotten with the promise of lack of sleep and stolen possessions. Instead, if he wished to get clean and wash away the stain of his duties, he made due with a cracked clay basin that seemed to leak water more than it held.

Soap slicked across his skin. It smelled of putrid and foul but it did the job. He smeared the film over his face and neck before picking up the brush. Hard bristles were drug firm against his flesh, leaving a path of red in their wake.

As he lowered his face into the basin, he felt hands take possession of his waist and tug him back firm, and commanding.

_Taliesin._

It was a game they played – dominance glided back and forth between the pair in a constant battle of wills and strength. The first to fully submit, the first to draw _blood_ as they called it was loser.

Arms wrapped possessive about Zevran's waist as Taliesin leaned into the elf. Heated breath and the tickle of a tongue found the sharp peak of an elfin ear. Taliesin murmured, "Did you have to let this one touch you?"

What residue remained on Zevran's face was washed away with another splash of water. Hands tugged at Taliesin's, pulling them away. He would not play the subservient elf, not this time. In this matter, his will was his own and beholden to no other. "No." A turn of the body and he leaned his backside against the table supporting the basin. Fingers curled along the edge, bracing himself.

Chest pushed against chest, the small space between Taliesin and Zevran narrowed further. Nostrils flared, the larger man leaning again into the elf and sniffing at his hair and skin. "I can smell another man on you." The words came mocking and cruel. A rook to his rook. Zevran's move.

Another piece was put into play. A fraction of their secrets they had shared in a moment of weakness for them both one night during their tenth years. The knot inside Zevran was twisted mercilessly in simplicity of the statement. Anger flared deep in his chest at the callous injury inflicted upon him. Emotions were kept at bay, swallowed down and hidden behind a smile slick with self-satisfaction. "You say the sweetest things, my dear Taliesin. It's no wonder the masters do not send you out more." Insecurity in his skills and jealousy at constantly being compared to his elfin friend jabbed sharp Taliesin. Weakness for weakness, they traded their barbs.

Fingers rose to twist vicious with silken strands of blond hair, tugging Zevran's head back with a harsh pull. The wince that wished to form was bitten back between the ever increasing spread of his grin. Zevran's stab had been precise and hit its mark. "The masters know I am no..servant," Taliesin sneered.

"How silly of me to have forgotten my place lapping at the heels of my human superiors." It was more a taunt than a belief. To bring up Zevran's race was an insult of the lowest common denominator even for Taliesen. The upper hand had been gained by Zevran. "And what would you have this servant do?" The elf would bide his time and take his opening when it came. He would play the role expected. It was a role he was all too familiar with. It was a role his Crow masters loved for him to play.

The challenge had been set upon the field. Taliesin's grip upon Zevran's hair strengthened, jerking Zev's head back to expose the length of the elf's neck. The bristle of his unshaven stubble scraped against the blond's neck as tooth and tongue made prey of exposed skin. "It's not my heels I want you to lap at. I expect you to play the part you were born to play and be my little elfin whore."

The roughness of bristle against freshly raw scrubbed skin brought a heave to Zevran's chest. Submission, however, was not an option. "And if I say no," Zevran asked derisive.

More hair spiraled about the length of Taliesin's fingers as he knotted his hand further into what had once been a meticulously styled coif. He tugged downward with little warning, jolting Zevran to his knees before him. "You won't." Determination rang true in Taliesin's expression. There was little doubt that he meant for Zevran to obey and concede defeat. First blood would be Taliesin.

Pain shot quickly through Zevran's legs as he collided with the ground indelicately and with little grace. Always with the hair and always with the roughness, Taliesin was becoming predictable. But concessions were not to be given. White flags were not to be flown. The sparring would continue and Zevran had every intention of coming out on top. He reached for the sides of Taliesin's pants, allowing fingers to slide between skin and fabric and scratch at the slope of the other man's hips.

A blond brow peaked curious, his voice slid into a sultry tone, "I take it this is what you had in mind?"

Triumph twisted Taliesin's grin. A victor's posture overtook him. "It is a good start."

Hands grab possessive at Taliesin's hips. The grip upon Zevran's hair loosened slightly, affording him enough leeway to lean forward and brush his mouth against the lacings of Taliesin's pants. Teeth bit into the leather ties and began to carefully work them loose. And when they were undone just enough, one hand raked ragged across the skin of the other man's stomach before edging into the pants.

Tender flesh fell prey to the well practiced ministrations of Zevran's digits. His gaze drifted up, finding Taliesin's. Sweet and docile, the looks Zev could form in a flash. He played his part as he imagined Taliesin would like it, the obedient elf ready to service his master in any way he should desire. It was enough to make the other relent in his malicious assault upon Zevran's head and instead withdraw his grasp to bestow a condescending pat on top of the elf's head as if he was his pet. "Now, that's a good little Dalish whore."

There was a trick that Zevran played with his index finger and thumb. He had jokingly called it his family legacy, having learned it from his whore of an adoptive mother. Taliesin's length grew under Zev's attentions. He had the other man where he wanted him and took the opportunity to make his move. That precious trick, his little legacy, was employed. Finger and thumb pressed firm and pernicious. And the human fell to his knees in a breathy cry. Another pinch, another exchange of power and Taliesin went from his knees to his side. His chest heaved in keening gasps.

Venom touched words edged in rasp from Zevran's mouth against the fallen man's ear, "I do know what you like, my dear Taliesin." Cruel fingers ripped away from Taliesin. Zevran shifted atop the other man, a knee digging into the human's back as his own hand drifted toward a boot. Metal glinted bright, a dagger withdrawn. Cloth gave way under the sharpness of the blade, the material of Taliesin's pants shorn into crooked pieces, exposing his naked backside.

The human bucked against the elf but it only spurned Zevran to dig his knee further into the prone man's spine with a sinister twist of the hip. "Stay," he commanded.

Saliva slicked against two of Zevran's fingers before he dropped his hand to Taliesin's bottom. The wetness of his touch against bared skin brought a shiver to Taliesin. Fingers glided within, a low groan emanating in the back of the prone man's throat. "As I said, I know what you like. And I do believe first blood is mine, no," Zevran asked in a whisper.

A defeated groan accompanied Taliesin's surrender; the white flag waving about in the air with a low cry of pleasure and assent. "Yes."

It was the way of their game and the elf had won. "Perhaps we should move this somewhere more comfortable such as the bed?" There was a reward to be claimed after all.

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**AN: **_This piece goes out to Lit. 3 you. HUGE thank yous go out to Midnight Strike and NotLaura for support._**  
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